


Drawing It Out

by therealamphibiousnewt



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Depression warning, M/M, Rating May Change, Slow Build, it's not set in stone yet, soldier thomas, tattoo artist newt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-08 12:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5496557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therealamphibiousnewt/pseuds/therealamphibiousnewt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The unexpected, early morning customer is about Newt’s age, too old to be a defiant college freshman from the campus across town, and too young to be a suburbanite hungry for a mid-life crisis piece.  He’s looking around the shop like it’s an alien planet, his expression of the all too familiar ‘it’s my first tattoo, but I’m not scared’ variety.  </p>
<p>He’s handsome in a way Newt can’t help but notice and suntanned in a way that’s out of place in the middle of winter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this got me through finals, yo. I needed some pointless fluff in my life. (But then I'm bad at pointless, and it blew up a wee bit, but whatever) 
> 
> Come see me at tysonrunningfox on tumblr!

Newt has always been an early riser, as long as he can remember, and unfortunately, he can't seem to shake it even now that running a tattoo parlor means staying up late at least half of the week. It's not like he likes waking up early, it just…happens. He finds himself staring at the ceiling, eyes itchy, craving coffee like oxygen and utterly sure he's not getting any more sleep. It's a curse. It's his alone time, sitting at his kitchen table and doodling in the margins of his sketchbook, waiting for the caffeine to take effect. And he's always ready to open his shop at eight, even on dreary winter Mondays when he won't have a client until the afternoon.

He switches the sign on the door to Open and looks at the schedule on the counter next to the register and frowns, because he doesn't have an appointment until two and it looks like neither Minho or Alby have any reason to come in today. He met them both during his apprenticeship, and it made sense to rent a shop together, but when Newt got the apartment upstairs, it seems he inherited most of the day to day responsibility as well. He doesn't mind it, not really, both of them have to hold a second job and he doesn't but…but on Monday mornings when no one in a three mile radius is even thinking about tattoos, he wishes he had the inherent ability to catch a few more hours of sleep.

He mops again, wiping the counters down even though they're still spotless from cleaning the night before, before settling down in the chair behind the register with his sketchbook. He barely has it open to the unfinished sketch he started the day before when the door opens with a familiar jingling of warning bells.

"Are you open?" The unexpected, early morning customer is about Newt's age, too old to be a defiant college freshman from the campus across town, and too young to be a suburbanite hungry for a mid-life crisis piece. He's looking around the shop like it's an alien planet, his expression of the all too familiar 'it's my first tattoo, but I'm not scared' variety.

He's handsome in a way Newt can't help but notice and suntanned in a way that's out of place in the middle of winter.

"Yeah," Newt stands, setting his sketchbook on the counter.

"Are you the um...the guy?" He draws on his forearm with a fingertip and Newt notices a carefully folded piece of yellowed paper clutched in his hand, probably the piece of art Newt will be working with.

His heart falls even though it shouldn't, it's always disappointed him how much of this job is centered around other people's designs, but it's the fact of starting out and he's putting up with it.

"The artist," He steps around the counter and shakes the guy's hand. "Newt."

"Thomas," his hand is stiff and clammy, but his grip is sure. Sturdy.

"Is that the piece?" Newt reaches for the piece of paper, surprised when Thomas flinches away, holding it close to his chest. "Sorry—"

"No. Yeah, this is it, what I want…tattooed," he laughs, but his eyes still look strange, guarded, as he hands the slip of paper to Newt.

It's been through hell, literally, burned on one side, yellowed with age, crinkled like it's been rained on, stained like someone dunked it into a cup of coffee a few dozen times. It's a list of five dates, next to them, a list of about four names each. The oldest writing is faded and carefully traced over in shaky handwriting.

There's a single name at the bottom of the paper in permanent marker, with a date less than three months old. Chuck.

"What were you thinking?" Newt flattens the paper carefully in his hands, trying not to tear it along its well-worn seams.

"That, on me." Thomas laughs again, running his hand through short brown hair. He has a new scar on the heel of his hand, still red and raw. "I've never done this before."

"Don't worry, I'll be gentle." Newt regrets it as soon as he says it, but Thomas laughs again, relaxing slightly, reaching for the paper like he doesn't quite trust Newt with it. "I mean, where on your body were you thinking, do you want a design, or do you want me to mimic how it looks on the page?"

"I was hoping you'd have better handwriting."

"I do," Newt laughs. "Part of the job."

"What do you mean a design?" Thomas looks away, walking around the front of the shop and looking at the designs on the walls. Most of them are Newt's, Alby keeps all of his in his own binder and Minho tends to sketch on napkins, and he can't help but feel a burst of pride when Thomas's eyes widen in apparent approval. "Did you draw all these?"

"Yeah," Newt steps up beside him. "And I do custom work. It's a by the hour rate for design, but I'd give you a discount because you're a new client, and to be honest, I'm really sick of drawing bloody infinity signs on college girls' ankles."

"I need all of the names to stay next to the dates. And I need…this," he points significantly at the name in permanent marker, "on its own."

"What size were you thinking?" It's a hefty request, and Newt is ready to brush the guy off when he says he wants it on a bloody postage stamp, but Thomas swallows like he's charging into battle.

"Big. Maybe on my back."

"You know, I usually caution first time clients from getting pieces on their back," Newt shrugs, "you won't see it much, and it might not feel worth it to you."

"I don't need to see it," Thomas shakes his head, "I need to feel it. To have it there."

It hits Newt that this is a memorial tattoo. He hasn't done many of those. He did Minho's when his father died, he did a friend's after the death of a grandmother but…but Thomas is too young to have a list that long.

"I'll tell you what, I'll draw up a few designs and give you a call to come look at them later in the week, see if I have anything you like."

"Yes," he nods, suddenly eager, "you sound like you know what you're doing." Thomas's eyes flit downwards, to the tattoos winding their way around Newt's arms, "and I guess you've done this a few times before, so…"

"Just a few, can I get a copy of that?" Newt points at the paper again, "something to work from, I don't want to damage the original."

"Thanks, uh…Newt, you said?"

He gets Thomas's phone number on a page of his sketchbook and makes two copies of the ratty sheet when Thomas requests an extra to take with him, and suddenly, a long morning of quiet sketching couldn't sound better.

00000

It takes a few tries to hit upon an idea that Newt likes, but when he finds it, it's so perfect that he doesn't even want to invest time in anything else. It's a tree, the branches etched with dates, the names arcing off of them in tree-branch lettering, the mysteriously important Chuck at the very top. He stays after closing Wednesday night to finish it, detailing the bark and wishing he'd asked Thomas about color. Not that Thomas has an idea about color, most likely.

It's strange, in a way, after years of turning people away who obviously didn't have a concrete idea— people who just wanted a tattoo for the sake of it, drunk people looking to never forget some particularly regrettable night of partying—having so much control over someone else's design.

And he's really excited about this one, he likes the lines of it, the symmetry, the way it all came together into a cohesive idea. It reminds him of the days when he wanted to do art on canvas, not skin, when his painting went to a local art show in the first semester of art school. There was a promise in that moment, a future he couldn't see, but could feel, waiting ahead of him like sunrise.

He finishes the sketch with a flourish of his pen, sitting back and tilting his head to take in the whole page at once. It's too late to call, he knows that, it's unprofessional, but he's not thinking about that when he picks up the desk phone and dials the number that Thomas badly scrawled onto his textbook.

His handwriting really is horrible, but charmingly so, like he's thinking too fast to worry about it.

Thomas picks up on the third ring, "Hello?"

"Hi, Thomas, it's Newt, from the—"

"Of course," he laughs, "one of the dozens of Newts I know. You better give me GPS coordinates too, or I'll get confused."

Newt laughs, "fine then, I'll keep your design all to myself at unspecified coordinates."

"You finished it already?"

Newt's almost embarrassed how clearly he can see Thomas's approving look in his mind. They met once, for five minutes, but the other man's casually impressed face is seared in Newt's memory.

"Yeah, only one though, it felt like the right one, so…"

"When can I come in?"

"Here, can I text you at this number? I'll send you a picture and if you hate it, I can spend time on something else."

"Sure, yeah. I'm looking forward to it."

They hang up and Newt pulls his cell phone out of his pocket, standing up to get a better angle on the sketch and taking the best picture he can. He captions it 'it looks better in person, I promise' and sends it to Thomas.

The reply comes almost instantly, 'yes! I love it.' Followed by 'when can we start?'

Newt flips through the schedule, 'you know, if you don't mind the early morning, we could start tomorrow at 8. It's dead in here until the afternoon.'

'see you then.'

00000

Newt is stupidly nervous the next morning, cleaning his chair with an extra spritz of antiseptic and wiping it down. Minho shows up a little before eight, looking half asleep and more than a little hungover as he cleans his own station, pausing to sip on a thermos of what smells like very strong coffee.

"It's not like you to make early morning appointments," Newt assures that his ink is in order, a fresh black ink cap beside his tattoo gun.

"They better tip me well," he shakes his head, "it's a favor. One of the waitresses at work has a botched piece from years ago. I offered to cover it up with something." He smiles for the first time that morning, "and it's on her ass so…"

"Ah. Right, say no more," Newt laughs, "I was worried about you, getting up before noon, but it all makes sense now."

"What are you doing today?"

"Some guy came in with a list, I think it's a memorial thing," Newt shows Minho his sketchbook. "Names and dates, wants a full back piece."

Minho gives a low whistle, "that'll be a few sessions."

"First time getting tattooed apparently, we'll see how it goes."

"Good luck," Minho continues setting up his station, dragging the shower curtain around his chair and ensuring privacy. For the most part, they've found that people like to look around as a distraction from the pain, and a lot of people come in with friends and want to chat, so they only close curtains when working on a particularly sensitive area.

Thomas shows up at eight o'clock on the dot, tossing an empty coffee cup into the can by the door and waving at Newt, slightly pale beneath his still startling tan.

"Good morning," Newt pats the tattoo seat, dropping onto his stool next to it. "Let's see what you think of this in person."

"It looked great in phone quality, better than just…you know, a list." He perches on the edge of the chair, obviously a little wary of sitting back fully, and Newt hands him the sketchbook. "Wow. It's really good. I can't believe you did this so quickly." He compliments even as he's talking he's looking over it critically, carefully, "the names are all there," he traces a finger over Chuck's name and seems to catch himself, tucking his hand in his pocket and handing the notebook back to Newt. "It looks great. Let's do it."

"You said you've never been tattooed before?"

"No. But, I mean, I don't have a problem with needles or anything."

"And this design should really be bigger on skin than it is on paper, it'll let me be more detailed, it'll be cleaner."

"Yeah," Thomas nods, "like I said, take my whole back, that's great. Just…do it right."

"You have such faith in me, Tommy." The nickname slips out unintentionally and Newt flushes slightly, standing and turning away.

He's tattooed plenty of attractive people. It's part of the job. And it's not really an issue, in the thick of it. Skin is skin, it all looks the same from two inches away while he's treating it as a canvas. But even as he's telling himself this, talking himself out of the fluttering of his stomach, he can feel Thomas's eyes on the back of his neck like twin points of heat.

"Hey, it's going to be there forever. I know, my mom lectured me about it," Thomas is grinning when Newt turns back around, some healthy color back in his cheeks.

"No way," Newt feigns alarm looking down his arms, "these are here forever? Where was your mum when I bloody needed her?"

Thomas laughs, "probably nagging me about something. I'll let her know she let you down."

"Ok," Newt shakes his head, a smile rising to his face, "let me see how big you want this, I'll trace it onto a stencil, and we'll get started."

"As big as it needs to be," he reiterates, solemnly, like this is a sentence.

"You don't sound too excited," Newt walks around behind him, placing his fingertips on Thomas's shoulder blades. He's more muscled than his frame suggests, solid in a work hardened way that means this will hurt him less and Newt's professional composure more. "About this wide?"

"Yeah, that's good," he nods, "ever since I saw your design, I was thinking the trunk along my spine. Probably starting on my lower back."

"You're really going for this."

"Yeah," he laughs, the sound reverberating against Newt's fingers as he draws a line against Thomas's lower back. "It's the right thing to do. I think."

"Right about here?"

"Yeah," he nods, "let's do it."

Newt goes to the back to copy his sketch larger in order to trace it onto transfer paper, and when he comes back, Minho and Thomas are chatting in an idle, friendly way.

"The back isn't so bad," Minho pulls his shirt up slightly to reveal the realistic tiger Newt finished just months earlier. It still looks good, a bit faded because Minho can't be arsed to use sunscreen properly, but good, and a surge of pride flows through him. "This was only three sittings for me, and the last was just fifteen minutes of touch ups. It's handy to work six feet from the artist."

"Newt did that?" Thomas's eyes widen in that appealing, approving way, and Newt clears his throat.

"At some point, you're going to hurt my feelings."

"No, that's just amazing," Thomas nods as Newt pulls the sheet of transfer paper over to him, tracing resolutely over the main lines of the sketch. "That's like, reality show, tattoo a Kardashian amazing."

"Thanks," Newt snorts. "It's his art though."

"Still," Thomas looks at Newt's sketchbook again, more closely, "this is really great, and if it looks half as great as that tiger, it'll be impressive."

If some malevolent god got the idea in their otherworldly head to torture Newt, they would send an idiot with massive brown eyes to compliment him. Newt scoffs, standing from his completed transfer and walking around behind Thomas.

"Take off your shirt."

"What?"

"So I can put this on."

"Right," he tugs his shirt over his head and fidgets with folding it, his hands still twitching as Newt steps around him, wiping his back down with a cool, damp paper towel and pressing the transfer paper to him. The pattern comes back beautiful, stark lines etching the shape out of cool, white skin.

Every artist has a moment, where they're staring at an untouched brick of something, and they can see the next David in it, the next Mona Lisa. And later, looking back, it's a moment of inspiration, it's the magical instant when the candle wick catches and everything makes sense, but looking at that beautiful brick of marble in the moment, at that plain canvas, it's the most daunting feeling in the world. There's a responsibility in art, to bring what lives in the mind into the outside world in full living color.

"Looks good, man," Minho whistles lowly, clapping Newt on the shoulder and breaking him out of his struck silence.

"Does it?" Thomas looks back over his shoulder like he can see his back and Newt reaches into his drawers, pulling out two hand-held mirrors and handing one to him. He angles the other so that Thomas can look into one and see the reflection of his back, like a hairdresser showing someone their haircut.

"Is the position alright? How about the size?" Newt asks even though he knows the answer. It's one of those rare pieces that's already there, on the inside, it's just waiting to come out.

"What do you think?" It's not sarcasm, it's an honest question, like Thomas gives a rat's ass about his opinion.

And he's given his opinion before, hundreds of times. No, don't get that, you'll regret it. No, your ex-girlfriend's name on your neck in block letters won't impress her. Yes, a full sleeve will make your fancy business degree essentially null and void. He's given his opinion on hundreds of tattoos on hundreds of strangers, but never has he wanted them to listen this much.

"I think it's bloody fantastic, honestly."

"Ok," Thomas sets down the mirror, "let's do this."

Newt explains the procedure as Thomas situates himself straddling the chair backwards, chest leaning against the backrest, chin propped where his shoulder would sit. The chair is a convertible sort of recliner, made for propping this way and that way and holding people still. The faint lines of the tracing twist and writhe with the lean muscles of his back, giving the illusion that the tree is growing, it's roots stretching deeper, the all-important Chuck climbing towards the sky.

"So this is going to take a few sessions, I'm thinking three or four, depending on your pain tolerance," Newt's eyes flick unintentionally to a scar winding its way across Thomas's bicep. It's red and new, like the scar on the heel of his hand, like they happened in the same accident. A similar mark peeks over his shoulder, and another around the side of his waist.

"I thought you said you'd be gentle," Thomas laughs, and it's not the nervous laugh of a first timer in a tattoo chair, it's a genuinely friendly sound, bereft of bravado and illogically charming.

"I'm a sadist at heart," Newt deadpans, reaching around to show Thomas the needle still in its sterile package. "Brand new needle, sanitary and sealed."

"Good to know some sadists still read the health code."

Newt rolls his seat alongside the chair, pressing a lever to lean it down slightly, so that Thomas is laying more directly on his chest, "are you ready?"

"Ok," Thomas shifts, pressing his other cheek into the chair and looking directly at Newt, through him. It looks uncomfortable, his neck twisted awkwardly, and Newt finds himself inappropriately flattered that Thomas would put so much effort into looking at him. "In all honesty, how much is this going to hurt?"

"It hurts the worst when the bone is close to the skin, so your shoulder blades and spine will be the worst part. I'll start on top of the muscle so you can get used to it, but everyone reacts differently." He triple checks the fit of the needle in the gun, bracing one hand against Thomas's shoulder and planting his right in the small of his back for stability. Thomas tenses, and he's stronger than his frame would indicate, a real, wiry sort of strength, like he carries heavy things and walks a lot. His suntan fades from a genuine gold on the back of his neck to a barely sunny dusting of freckles along his shoulders. "Relax, getting yourself bloody worked up isn't going to help anything."

"Have you had your back done?"

"Yes, but I'm a good bit bonier than you are."

"What's on your back?" He bites his lip, exhaling slowly.

"A few things," Newt says slowly, bending forward and focusing on the line of his template, pressing the vibrating needle to the skin just hard enough. Thomas swears and laughs breathlessly. "See? Not as bad as you were making it out to be," he pauses to wipe the skin, pleased when the cool, damp paper towel comes away blood free and lightly smudged with black. A small, clear line is left behind and he presses the needle back to Thomas's skin, starting to work away in earnest.

"Now you're just teasing me," his voice is a bit higher than it was, a bit nervous, and Newt remembers his own first tattoo. He was dumb, started in right on his ankle, he thought he wasn't going to be able to finish, not because of the pain but because of the strange, uncomfortable vibration through his bones. "What's on your back?"

"A few things," Newt repeats, shaking his head and adjusting his elbow against Thomas's back, wiping the fresh ink again and checking for blood. His skin is taking it well, barely red around the new line, and Thomas doesn't seem all that agitated aside from slightly quickened breathing.

"What? Ex-girlfriends' names? A Chinese tramp stamp that says General Tso's chicken?"

"I can't tell whether you're that bloody curious or whether you're just an asshole," Newt shakes his head, exhaling in a slow, measured way when he takes the gun around a careful tight corner. He's working in from Thomas's right, towards the spine, dipping in and out of sharp nooks and crannies. The name Ben is appearing from the branches, crisp against pale skin. "Some of my mate Alby's stuff. Sugar skull on my shoulder, some free hand scenery work. My left sleeve goes over my shoulder and down the back a bit."

"How many tattoos do you have?"

"At this point?" Newt laughs, sitting up to wipe away at the ink, revealing a clean line beneath the smudged black ink. "One."

"How—"

"What do you do, Tommy?" Newt feels a little too warm from Thomas's skin under his hands and he tries to change the subject. "When you're not letting total strangers doodle all over your whole bloody back, I mean."

"Just started school," his back tenses slightly and Newt spreads his hand against Thomas's shoulder, ready in case he jolts. The needle flirts with a bump of Thomas's spine but he doesn't seem to notice, aside from a deep hiccupping breath. "And this is a lot less painful than that, to be honest."

"What are you going to school for?"

"Don't know yet," Thomas clears his throat, shifting, apparently uncomfortable for first time since they started. He squints at the template, drawing a careful line along the sharp crook of a W. Winston. "I uh…I just got back from Afghanistan. It was either school or…" He seems to lose the will to finish the sentence, his hand clenching one of the chair's metal legs, taut with something other than pain. Pain makes people shake, pain makes people bleed, but Thomas is rock hard and sturdy, suddenly the marble blank Newt doesn't want to compare him to.

The list gains instant significance and Newt feels bad for asking.

"Left sleeve is a maze—well, technically a labyrinth, because there's a minotaur coming out of it on my back. Minho did the maze; Alby did the minotaur. That was fun, they were working simultaneously, rattling over my bloody ribs every two seconds."

Thomas is silent for a long moment and Newt starts to dread the next few hours, stewing in the awkward quiet he steeped himself. He should have known, the tan, the haircut, the way Thomas holds himself. Last summer, a group of soldiers came in, grave but excited, barely eighteen. They wanted their dog tags recreated on their skin, called them meat tags with childish bravado.

Newt's British. Not just that he was born there, but in heart and mind. He's never held a gun, he'll maim someone with cutting politeness, he'll hold his own in a bar fight but…but being part of sending those kids to fight a war it doesn't seem like anyone understands was something more than heartbreaking.

"How long have you been doing this?" Thomas's voice is pointedly back to normal, upbeat in a fake, brave way. "It's ok if we talk, right? My teeth are rattling together."

"Seven years now," Newt nods, "started my apprenticeship during my second year of art school, when I realized no one buys paintings anymore. Started working here right after, the old owner retired and cut me a deal. It came with the lease on the flat upstairs, so I save gas money."

"Aren't you supposed to be a badass biker with no room for rules or something? That's the most reasonable thing I've ever heard."

"It's not the first time I've heard that," Newt laughs under his breath, pausing to wipe the line, moving his elbow to a new spot and leaning close over Thomas's back. He's working around the roots now, flitting against his spine every so often. Thomas winces, the first, miniscule bead of blood breaking through. Newt sets down the gun and dabs at the spot with a freshly cool paper towel. "How's it feeling?"

"A little warm? Sort of like a sunburn. It's fine though," he nods, rolling his shoulders slowly, wincing slightly. "How are we doing?"

Newt checks his watch, glancing at the outline on Thomas's back, "we've been at it about 45 minutes, I'm about a quarter of the way done with the outline. Depends on how you hold out, but we might be able to finish the outline today." He stretches his wrist, "go ahead and take a break, we'll start back up in a few."

Thomas sits up, still straddling the chair, stretching his arms over his head. The scar on his waist winds around, almost to his navel, and there's a second, twin line below it, hooked over his hipbone. Newt's eyes flick briefly to the thickening trail of dark hair leading towards the waist band of Thomas's pants. He looks away, but not quickly enough, not before Thomas glances at the scars, moving to cover them up but stopping himself.

"IED. Honorable discharge."

"'M sorry."

"I'm fine," he shrugs, "I'm always fine."

The door saves him then, Minho's friend from the diner looking harried and cold, signing a release form while holding her tube of lipstick between her teeth. Minho comes out to greet her, and she brushes his arm, and they disappear behind the shower curtain with a casual laugh. When Newt turns back to Thomas, he's grinning again, a stainless steel chain hanging from his fist, something clenched inside of it.

"Something tells me she's not paying full price," he whispers when Newt is close enough, waggling his eyebrows. Minho exclaims about the poor quality of the tattoo behind the curtain and she laughs.

"Looking for a discount, Tommy?"

"Thinking about it," he resituates himself in the chair, once again looking at Newt as he picks up where he left off, moving more smoothly after the break.

They manage to stay away from awkward topics until Newt finally finishes the outline two and a half hours later. They talk about college, about the severe lack of things to do in town. They laugh together when Minho walks his client to the door, saying goodbye a little too sincerely, refusing her tip in exchange for a drink sometime.

"How many drinks would I have to buy you for that discount?" Thomas wiggles his eyebrows and Newt brushes him off with a laugh.

It's too comfortable for something so new, too close for something so clinical. Newt starts to wince towards the end of the session, when he's carving the Chuck into existence, small beads of blood starting to pool on Thomas's overworked skin. His entire back is blushing at this point, Newt leaving temporary white handprints wherever he touches. Thomas sighs as Newt draws across his spine one last time, his body shuddering in a way Newt really doesn't want to think about.

He's had girls try that move on him before, young girls asking for work on their inner thigh, shuddering through the pain and batting eyelashes at him. He's always thought it was hilarious, a desperate act that would work on the bad boy image everyone seems to expect, but overall, ineffective in reality. But every barely there grunt, every sharp exhale, as Thomas finally approaches his limit shoots straight to Newt's core, swirling hot and unprofessional in his chest.

He's almost glad when he's done, almost happy to remove his hands from Thomas's skin entirely, to take his time throwing the needle in his sharps bin and throwing away the nearly empty ink cap. By the time he sits back down to go over aftercare, Thomas has cooled down, some of the red flush retreating, only a fuzzy pink halo around clear black lines. It looks better on skin than it ever did on paper. Names clear in thatches of branches, roots grounding the design to Thomas's spine.

It's a tattoo that was always there, one of those magical things that Newt didn't create, he just revealed it, peeled away the layers hiding it from the world.

"I'm not normally one to brag," he pulls a sheet of pre-printed aftercare instructions from the stack in his drawer, handing them to Thomas as he sits up, looking over his shoulder like a dog still sure it can catch its tail. "But it looks bloody good so far."

"Yeah?" Thomas arches his back, trying to see, wincing immediately. There's something off kilter in his eyes again, something desperate, and Newt recognizes the chain still clenched in his fist as dangling from a dog tag.

"Here," he hands Thomas a mirror, "go look in the full length mirror."

He doesn't hesitate, hopping easily off of the chair and tripping slightly on nothing at all, holding the mirror in front of him and turning his back to the mirrored wall. He raises his eyebrows, his expression settles into something undefinably calm.

"It's perfect. Yes. Thanks, Newt, that's…that's exactly what it's supposed to be like."

"Well, it's not done yet, it needs texture and shading, but you seem pretty done for today, it was getting pretty—whoa—"

Thomas cuts him off with an unexpected hug, the cool glass of the mirror jarring through the thin fabric of Newt's tee-shirt. Newt has never really been much of a hugger—again, he's British—and he's cautious about touching Thomas's back at all, but it's not as awkward as it should be when he pats Thomas on the shoulder, trying not to inhale the familiar but suddenly interesting scent of ink and sweat and adrenaline.

"Sorry," Thomas pulls back, but he doesn't look sorry, he's beaming, finally turning to the aftercare instructions in his hand. "What do I have to do now?"

"If you stopped asking questions for two buggin' seconds, I'd tell you," Newt is more flustered than he should be, brushing a shred of paper towel from his shirt and looking around at nothing in particular. Alby is supposed to be here soon, but he isn't yet, and Newt finds himself inexplicably glad for the privacy. "No soaking it, no hot baths or showers. I'm going to throw a bandage on it really quick, and give you a pot of salve, take the bandage off in about two hours and reapply. Wash with unscented, antibacterial soap twice a day. Don't pick any scabs," he lists, grabbing one of his pots of aftercare lotion from his set of drawers and walking around behind Thomas, trying and failing not to feel something when he smooths the cool cream onto overheated skin.

"Right, and no food and water after midnight."

"Funny," Newt tapes a sheet of clean fabric across the tattoo. "When the scabs fall off on their own, call for your next appointment. Should be about a week or so."

Thomas nods, turning around and looking fond again. Thankful. Grateful. The dogtag is dangling loosely from his hand now, like he's forgotten it's there but it's so naturally a part of him he doesn't notice.

Newt takes a step back and runs his hand through his hair, "Got it?"

"I have a cheat sheet," Thomas folds the paper and tucks it in his pocket, reaching for his shirt and tugging it over his head a bit awkwardly, wincing slightly when he shrugs it fully into place. "A week. And what do I owe you for today?" He pulls his wallet, and ancient, hideous frayed thing held together with peeling Velcro.

It's an impulse when Newt waves him off, "don't worry about it. We'll square up when it's done and you're happy with it."

"Wow, you didn't even have to see my ass."

"I'm a hug fetishist," Newt shrugs, cheeks uncomfortably warm, back of his neck prickling like someone is watching. Someone other than his future self, who will be thoroughly cringing as soon as Thomas is out of sight.

"I'll keep that in mind," he takes a halting step towards the door, "and I guess I'll talk to you in a week."

"When the scabs fall off."

"I heal quick," Thomas waves on his way out of the shop and Newt busies himself cleaning up, spraying down the chair that's still warm, and trying not to think of the chest that was just lying on it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two jerks took their sweet time cooperating. Like, I've written about 5 versions of this chapter before this one finally felt right. It's like...three different versions all cobbled together at once, but I like it, and I think it's solid, and also, they're sickeningly adorable and I just want to write banter all day. 
> 
> Come see me at tysonrunningfox on tumblr, I have a lot of feelings.

Thomas doesn't wait seven days. He texts Newt in two, complaining about the itching. Newt tells him that it's part of the process, but Thomas isn't comforted, sending him a picture of the aftercare sheet edited with red marker to say 'itchy as hell' in block letters across the center of the page.

He's too easy to talk to, too open and funny and curious. He asks the questions no one ever asks, questions that stump Newt entirely, which is frankly a very new concept. It turns into a real conversation somewhere along the way, a growing, changing thing that has Newt not so casually checking his phone every half hour. He can't help but smile when he gets the picture, badly aimed downwards like Thomas is holding the phone behind his head to take it. It's more of a picture of his ass, honestly, but the black lines etched into his back are crisp and well healed, the scabs gone to reveal a perfectly acclimated tattoo.

'Looks good.'

'can I come in for the rest tomorrow?' Thomas has a tendency to send short bursts of many texts, and Newt has learned not to reply until he's gotten at least the first three, or his answer will have changed by the time he's done typing. 'I want to show it off,' Newt rolls his eyes, 'but it's not done yet.' 'And I don't want people thinking I got some half rate artist.' 'So it's in your interest not mine'.

'I'm pretty booked in the morning, but I'm free after four if you didn't mind making a late night of it.'

'Sure.' 'I'll see you then.'

Newt finds himself rushing on his last client of the day, slapping a bandage over the fresh ink with entirely too much force, and glancing at the clock on the wall as he ushers them out the door. Alby notices, much to his chagrin, a knowing smile on his face as he rifles through the drawer for a release form.

"What are you looking at?" Newt fixes his hair for what feels like the millionth time this week, glaring at Alby and the doorway in turn.

"Minho said he was cute."

"Minho has horrible taste, we both know that."

"What he actually said is that 'Newt thought he was cute'." Alby scratches behind his ear, like this is all so casual. Like he hasn't acted like Newt's overprotective older brother for years. Like he isn't practically waiting in the wings with naked baby pictures to shove in Thomas's face while making not so veiled threats. "But it is Minho, he could be wrong."

"He's…" Newt doesn't want to lie, it's not worth it, not for some…sort of cute client that will be done by the end of the month and gone forever. "He's a complete greenie getting a full back piece."

"He let you design it," it's too valid of a point, too perceptive, and Newt questions himself. He's designed plenty of pieces, and they're always his favorite, but could it be influencing his opinion further? Could he be building Thomas into some…idiotic savior for letting him work with something more than a scrap of skin and a million constraints?

"You make it sound so bloody miraculous that I can still hold a pencil," Newt brushes it off, looking at the clock again and wiping down the front counter. "Really inspires confidence."

"We both know that's bullshit," Alby rolls his eyes, clapping Newt on the shoulder as he passes by, carrying the release form to his chair furthest in the back. He's doing some work for a regular, and they fall into easy conversation as Alby preps his tools.

Newt looks at the clock again and sort of hates himself for it.

Thomas eventually shows up a few minutes late, a backpack slung over one shoulder, a little red-faced like he's been rushing, and he greets Newt with an impossible smile, like they've been friends forever and haven't seen each other in months.

"So everything healed up alright?" Newt takes his bag, setting it behind the counter and out of the way before leading Thomas back to his chair.

"What? You couldn't tell from my wonderful photography?"

"Even you need help to take pictures of your own back, Tommy." The nickname slips out too easily, again, and Newt can't bring himself to regret it when Thomas whips his shirt over his head, looking smugly over his shoulder, like he's showing off a personal accomplishment.

"I haven't told my sister about it yet, and she's my only roommate," he shrugs, and there's something pointed in the motion, like he's punctuating his words with the subtle winding of branches across the muscles of his back. It looks good in a way that makes Newt doubt he did it. Makes him doubt he had hands on that skin for hours with most of his sanity coming out intact.

Alby snorts from across the room and Newt rolls his eyes, taking a cotton pad and a bottle of rubbing alcohol out of his drawers. He starts to clean Thomas's back in even, measured lines, swiping the full breadth of the tattoo until goosebumps break out along Thomas's arms and the back of his neck.

"It looks so good though. I'm excited to get it done."

"It'll probably be two more sessions," Newt throws the cotton pad away and pulls up his stool. He set up before Thomas got here, a selection of smaller needles that he likes for shading in their sterile packaging next to his equipment. "I'll probably shade today and add the bark texture in a week or so. Have you thought about color?"

"Did you design it with color in mind?"

"Not necessarily," Newt shrugs, sitting down and examining the line at the top of the tattoo, the one weaving around the capital C in Chuck. Thomas shivers.

"Your hands are freezing."

"Sorry," Newt rubs his palms together, "right. So, are we good to start?"

"I don't see why not," Thomas swings his leg over to straddle the chair. He moves easily, like it's fun, like he's one of those blokes that goes to the gym because they enjoy it, and Newt can't help but look at his chest again, the smooth definition punctuated by those long, red scars. They seem defiant to heal, unlike his back, like his body is physically rejecting them the same way it's so readily accepting the ink.

"I'm actually going to have you lay on your front," he presses the lever to lower the chair flat, trying not to think about how it sounds, trying not to look at the way his jeans tighten around his thighs as he lays down. "Just a better angle with the light." He smooths a hand over Thomas's back, an artist reassessing a canvas at a new angle. He likes shading more than line work, it's less dictation and more perception, and he's lost in placing the angle of the light in his mind as he fits a new needle into his gun.

"Tough week?"

When Newt looks down Thomas is staring at him, studying him in that curious prying way that makes Newt want to ask the full story behind all those names. He's lying on his stomach, cheek pressed into the seat so firmly it's obviously uncomfortable. It looks wildly uncomfortable and Newt finds himself feeling oddly flattered.

"You're here at the end of the day this time," Newt grins, bracing his hand against Thomas's shoulder and planting his elbow. It's both more comfortable and closer when Thomas is laying down, Newt leaning fully across him, his waist pressing against Thomas's side. "Been doing this all day, the hand cramps up."

"And here I thought you missed me," he twitches when Newt presses the needle to his skin, then relaxes into it, exhaling slowly through his nose. It's a different motion for the shading, quicker movements, less definite, less pressure, and Newt settles into the position, letting himself lean on Thomas's lower back, settling in for a long haul.

"That too. I'll never be the same."

"Me either," Thomas shifts and Newt is too aware of the whisk of his jeans against the chair. "It's like you didn't just doodle on my back, you doodled on my heart."

"That was awful."

"How does a British accent make everything sound so certain?" He laughs, the vibration of it a bolt of electricity against Newt's side. "I feel like you just shattered my dreams."

"You're catching on."

Newt looks up and sees Alby grinning at him, and it brings him back to the present. Thomas is talking to him easily, but Newt's starting to think that's just him. After he got over the nerves of that first, vulnerable session, he opened up into someone chatty, vivacious. More likely to make up for an awkward situation with flirting over silence. It's like the line work was a catharsis, and he left some anxious part of him behind with his skin's virginity.

Thomas is probably like this with everyone.

The thought stings more than it should.

"And this is your first tattoo?" Alby shouts calls out. "You're taking it like a pro."

"Newt's being gentle," Thomas shifts slightly, turning to face Alby, "he promised."

"If he's giving gentle tattoos, we should trade," Alby's client laughs, obviously at ease in the chair, his entire arms decorated with ink long faded blue from time and sun.

Thomas stiffens a bit at the joke, like he doesn't get it initially or—a thrill, a stupid, adolescent, idiotic, impossible thrill runs through Newt at the thought—or maybe he doesn't like the idea of anyone else working on him.

"I wouldn't trade for the world," Newt laughs, "he's letting me do whatever I bloody want."

"Mutual trust," Thomas nods.

Alby gives Newt one last too knowing look before starting on his own work. Newt's glad to have Alby's eyes off of him, glad for a moment of silence, but it makes it all too easy to be distracted by Thomas's heartbeat under his hand, his slow, rhythmic breathing, like this is a leisurely massage. He thinks about that, before he can help it, some day in some far off future when Thomas's back is healed and fully adorned, tracing the black lines with a fingertip as—

"—sorry, didn't mean to break your focus," Thomas sounds a bit nervous.

"What was that? Didn't hear you."

"I asked how it was looking."

"Oh, right," Newt leans back slightly, trying to appreciate the whole picture rather than the inch square chunk he was focusing on. The tree trunk is taking on a 3D appearance, the branches even more lifelike as they sway with Thomas's breaths. "We've still got a ways to go, you still alright?"

"Yeah," he shifts, lifting his arms up and folding them under his chin. It pulls his skin taut, arching his spine slightly and Newt shifts, leaning back down, his nose two inches away from the skin as he works on a tiny spot. Focusing on the whole picture dangerous. It's like being told to edit the Sistine chapel with Michelangelo looking over his shoulder. "This hurts less. Sort of tickles, honestly."

"It turns some people on," it slips out unintentionally, and Newt is all at once very embarrassed and very curious as to Thomas's reaction.

Thomas is a flirt when he texts. It's like he can't help it, every other word sounds like a come on or a compliment, and Newt had sort of built it all up in his head into something empty and…virtual. But for Thomas to show up today and act like the person on the phone, not the nervous, forlorn guy with a crinkled piece of paper…well, that means something, doesn't it? It means that the flirting was purposeful and more importantly, bidirectional.

"I bet that's awkward," he mutters, under his breath. Newt is once again newly aware of the way his bare arm is pressed against Thomas's bare skin. That the interface between them is so much warmer than the room around them, blazing and impossible to ignore. "Has anyone ever gotten off on it?"

"I had a girl fake it once during a lower back piece," Newt chuckles at the memory, at the fact he's telling Thomas this, knowing Alby is feet away when he's supposed to be following professional guidelines he set for himself. "It was halfway convincing until she got a text and stopped mid moan."

"She couldn't even finish faking it for you? Ouch, that's just cold."

"Still not over it," Newt sits back, dabbing at the ink with a cool, damp paper towel. Thomas sighs. The sound goes straight to Newt's groin and he shifts, crossing his ankles and pressing them together until it hurts enough to be distracting.

"I bet you get that a lot, though."

"I've only had someone fail to fake it once, thanks," he starts shading onto the thickest branch, the oldest date, fading the depth of the shadow around the numbers, dragging the ink along the line and making the tree look warped and aged.

"I mean, you've got that whole…angelically cute bad boy with a heart of gold thing going on."

"That's a thing? I'm behind. I didn't realize types had gotten so complicated."

"It would almost get to me if you didn't have to cut in with the razor tongue every two seconds." But he's laughing when he says it, and the reality of the situation slaps Newt across the face.

If they were in a bar, and some guy half as good looking and funny as Thomas said something half that certain to him, there would be no doubt in his mind where this is going. It would be a question of when, rather than if.

But Thomas is already more than his wit or his looks to Newt, and that's the problem. Friends to more never works, and while he wouldn't call Thomas his friend, he hasn't known him for long enough, it's still more than just…a passing glance. It's more than a tattoo and a joke. There's time and feeling invested in a way he can't quite quantify, but it's enough to make him tentative.

He thinks of staying up to finish the design, the way it already felt important then, the way Thomas already felt important then. He thinks of Thomas, clutching a dog tag, pale and nervous. It's probably just compensating. He's probably trying to make up for being a downer.

Thomas flirts like he breathes. He's probably like this with everyone.

"Can't change that though, can I?"

"Of course not," he laughs.

"I'm just doing my part, Tommy-boy."

"You must be cute, if I let you call me that," his voice deepens slightly, and Newt feels it as much as he hears it, the thrum waking his hands up where they had been trying to cramp and fall asleep.

"Have you seen me, Tommy? Of course you let me call you that."

It goes more quickly than Newt wants it to, the lines turning into smooth round branches, highlighting curves of Thomas's back like topographical contours. Alby leaves after his client, around five, and they work for a final hour in peaceful quiet, Newt quelling conversation in favor of concentrating on the delicate branches framing names. Thomas never reaches that point of breathless pain this time, his skin merely pink around the new ink when Newt sits up and stretches his arms over his head.

"Are we done for today?"

"Yeah, and the last appointment won't be nearly this long," Newt looks away as Thomas sits up and stretches. He wonders if there will be a break this time, or if he'll wake up to some revelatory text about itching tattoos.

"Can I see the mirror? I want to look at it." There's a glint of the stony faced guy who's been so absent today, enough of a shadow that Newt is forced to reconcile the two. And even if Thomas flirts with everybody, Newt sincerely doubts that everyone gets these nervous, penetrating looks, reaching out for support.

"Yeah, here."

Thomas walks a bit stiffly to the full length mirror, turning around and staring solemnly at his reflection for a minute. He exhales, a bracing thing that makes him look like he's in pain, that forces Newt to imagine his scars fresh and deep and bleeding. IED, he said. The thought that anyone could even think about blowing Thomas up courses as hot fury through his veins and he's suddenly protective.

"A'right?"

"I…I think I can start leaving the sheet itself at home," he says it so quietly, so numbly, like it's something embarrassing he rehearsed for hours. "It's falling apart, but I…I don't like to be without it. And now I never have to."

Newt thinks about initiating the hug this time, about pushing the mirror out of the way and pressing his cheek to the side of Thomas's neck as he holds him close. It's too tempting. He thinks about it for too long and Thomas is looking at him expectantly.

"What? I don't get a handout this time?"

"Considering you ruined the other one," it snaps Newt out of his trance and he grabs a pot of salve, brusquely wiping it onto Thomas's back when he gets close enough. He tapes a bandage in place and pulls an after care sheet from the stack.

"You should really edit this, I swear. I'm no wimp and I was really wishing for an 'itches like pepper spray on a sunburn' bullet point."

"Seven days. Again. Probably itchier this time, more skin area." Newt hates how stilted he sounds when he says it. He hates that he didn't hug Thomas, he hates that he thought twice about it.

"Come on, now you just sound like you're trying to get rid of me," Thomas's smile is a thoroughly convincing shadow of its former self, like he's recovering from his trips to whatever sad place he goes to more and more quickly each time. He puts his shirt on, shrugging into it with a bit more finesse than last time, playing with the hem of it for a second and looking at newt so purposefully it hurts.

"Do you want to go get a drink?" Newt blurts, feeling like a sixteen-year-old boy all over again, awkward and unaware of where his limbs end.

"Now?" Thomas looks surprised but pleased, definitely pleased, "I can't right now. I have homework, and normally, I'd blow it off, but I told a friend I'd help her study—"

"I can't do tomorrow," he thinks out loud, "late appointment, but…Friday?"

"Drink. On Friday," Thomas nods like he's committing it to memory. "Yes. I'll meet you here?"

"And I'm sure you won't shut up until then," Newt's smiling like an idiot, his face too warm as he grabs Thomas's bag from behind the counter for him.

"No, you can't get rid of me that easily." He shakes his head, and it's almost purposeful the way their fingers brush across each other as he takes his backpack.

"Yeah, you're a pest."

"No," Thomas is fond again. And it's great and torturous all at once. Newt can imagine that look everywhere, all the time. He can imagine waking up to it and it's a dangerous, wonderful thought. "I'm perfectly normal. You're just…sticky. You haven't figured that out by now? All that art stuck to you," Thomas gestures at his arms, the designs weaving together across his skin. "You're a walking glue stick."

"You're an idiot."

There's a moment when they almost kiss. They both seem to know it, its's a shared almost, a shared almost with a slow, sinking, mutual decision to leave things as they are. Thomas is too close to the guy who looks in mirrors and seems like he's going to fall apart. Newt is too cautious, too torn between seeing him as a tragedy or as a possibility. Another day will be better, Friday will be better.

Thomas pats Newt on the shoulder and they both laugh, sharing one last glance as Thomas steps outside. Friday is too close and too far, all at once.

00000

Thomas keeps his promise, texting nearly immediately and absolutely continuously. It's a different conversation, or maybe it just feels different because Newt can't get it out of his head that they have a date and that his stupid crush might not be so stupid. It's harder than usual to work late on Thursday, and it doesn't help anything that it's not a real client, it's just Minho, and he's sipping on a beer and chattering while Newt tries to concentrate.

"Are you listening to me at all?" Minho finishes his beer and sets it down, wincing slightly when he looks at his arm. It's a touch up on an old piece, weaving the tail of a cobra into another design that came later.

"I don't know why you still look at the needle," Newt turns off his tattoo gun and sets it aside. "You're fine when you don't look."

"I'm fine now," but his face has a green tinge it didn't a moment before. Minho is one of those guys that will do something specifically because he is afraid of it. That's what brought him into the shop Newt was apprenticing at in the first place. He didn't like needles so he decided to get a tattoo, and by the time he was done, he was hooked.

"I'm done, anyway," Newt touches up a few lines, darkening them to match the work around them. "You should let me touch up the rest of it sometime."

"You're exhausting, bro, it looks great." He stands, stretching his arms over his head. He moves slowly, easily, like he's trying not to look like he's being careful. Newt rolls his eyes and makes Minho stand there for another moment as he tapes a bandage over the new ink.

Newt's phone vibrates and he pulls it out of his pocket all too quickly. It's an e-mail, some spam he doesn't care about, and he's glaring at Minho even before he meets the other man's knowing smirk.

"Not Thomas?"

"E-mail."

"Is Thomas supposed to text you or something—"

"You can shut the bloody hell up at any time, you know," he flushes, feeling like a teenager, tucking his phone back in his pocket and tidying his station. He shoves the empty beer bottle into Minho's hands, pointing at the recycle bin in the corner. "And you could learn to clean up after yourself, I'm not your bleedin' mum."

"You get cranky when you have a crush, damn." Minho shoves his shoulder as he walks past, dropping his empty bottle in the bin. "And you aren't fourteen, you know, if you want to talk to him so bad, just text him first."

"When you're not with me, are you and Alby giggling over my made-up romance?" Newt's face feels hot, and he can't help but think of how funny Thomas would likely find all of this, "because it sounds like you two are the ones who should date."

"Set us up, why don't you? Our foreplay can be joking about the lack of sex in your life. It sounds dreamy."

"That's messed up, man," he sighs, running his hand through his hair. This is stupid. Minho is right.

"There is no limit to how much you being miserable turns me on."

"I'll let Alby know," Newt pulls his phone out, flicking through to his text feed with Thomas and typing a quick message. 'Done with my client. It was Minho, I should have drawn a dick on his arm, the asshole won't stop teasing me.'

"You hooking me up?" Minho quirks a knowing eyebrow and Newt rolls his eyes.

"Yes, you and Alby will be getting off on how bloody miserable I am in a matter of hours," he glares out the front window, at a couple of drunks fighting, no doubt from the bar up the street. "Yes, I texted him, are you happy?"

"Not until I've lured Alby into my bedroom and—"

"I'm gonna stop you there," Newt walks past his friend, frowning at the fight outside. It's rough, more calculated than the percussive, blunt blows of a typical bar brawl. One of the men is yelling, a hoarse, deep, rough sound that twinges somewhere in Newt's core. "That's…" The fight breaks apart for a second, the street light casting striking shadows across the yelling fighter's face.

It's Thomas. Not the sad Thomas, not the joking Thomas, but a furious, boiling rage filled Thomas Newt hasn't seen before. The knuckles on one of his fists are split open, red and shiny in the halogen glow.

"Is that…?" Minho leans on the window beside him, squinting slightly.

"That's Thomas."

They're both out of the door in an instant, racing across the street and catching Thomas by his elbows and pulling him back. Thomas was clearly winning the fight, the other guy staggering with a waterfall of blood streaming from his ruined nose. His cheek is split below his eye and Thomas squirms against their grip, launching himself forward, his hands curled into tight fists.

"He's a fucking liar!" Thomas roars by way of explanation, his shoes rasping against the pavement. Minho smacks him across the face, hard enough to be jarring, hard enough that Thomas falters in his rage, looks back and forth between the two of them, recognition glinting behind his eyes. "Newt?" He mutters, eyebrows furrowed in a way that would be cute if there weren't a spatter of someone else's blood across his forehead.

"Guy's fucking crazy, man." The bloodied drunk in front of them spits out what looks like half a tooth, running a bloody hand over his face as if assessing the damage. "All I said was—"

Thomas starts struggling again all at once, dragging Newt and Minho forward half a step before they can stop him.

"I don't think he wants to hear it," Minho grunts with the effort of holding Thomas back and Newt steps in front of him, pushing him towards the street, towards the shop. Thomas's shoulders are rock hard and twitching with strain against Minho's grip, and Newt doesn't know how he ever thought Thomas's physique was anything but deadly. "Let's get him inside, dude."

"He's lucky I don't sue!" Mr. Punching Bag McGee lunges forward and Newt glares at him over his shoulder.

"You're lucky we don't let him go, mate."

The guy shuts up at that, thankfully, and Thomas goes an odd sort of limp by the time they're halfway across the street. He stumbles and starts apologizing all at once, his arms slack and useless in Minho's grip as Newt jerks the shop door open and ushers them inside. It's the same place that it was—the same clean tile and antiseptic smell, the same art pinned on the walls—but it feels different now, with Thomas in it, his breath ragged and uneven. His split knuckle drips blood onto the clean, shiny floor, little red flecks decorating the tile.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't—I don't—he just wouldn't shut up, no one could make him—he didn't know what he was talking about," Thomas's eyes are glassy with tears and Minho drops him instantly, looking to Newt for help. He mimes slapping Thomas again and Newt glares at him, slinging an arm around Thomas's shoulders and guiding him to the nearest chair.

It's Alby's and it creaks differently than Newt's when Thomas sits down, a heavy sigh rushing out of his mouth all at once. "If he'd just stopped saying it—but he wouldn't stop, he just kept going on and on."

"Do you want a beer?" Minho offers, slightly pale, eyebrows raised.

Thomas frowns, "yeah. That'd be great."

"Ok," he disappears to the mini-fridge in the back and brings back an opened beer, handing it to Thomas and looking at Newt with a smug sort of hope, like he's waiting for affirmation that he fixed everything before bragging about it.

Thomas drinks half of the beer in one gulp before staring into it, turning the bottle slowly in bloody palms. Drip, drip, new red flecks on the floor. Newt is going to be up all night cleaning, but he can't bring himself to care, not really.

"Your hand is bashed up," he scoffs, digging through Alby's drawers for a roll of paper towels and pressing one to Thomas's shredded skin. "At least try not to bleed all over the floor."

"Sorry!" Thomas says it too loudly, taking the paper towel from Newt and pressing it to his own hand. He takes another swig of his beer, setting the mostly empty bottle aside, "I'll clean it up, and I'll get out of your hair, I swear, I didn't—"

"What did that asshole say to you anyway?" Oh Minho, always the tactful one.

Thomas clenches his teeth, his jaw flexing in a way that does something to Newt's chest, "he said soldiers are bullies. That they deserve what's coming to them."

Newt thinks of the list of names practically carved into the skin of Thomas's back, anger he can't put a word to roaring in the back of his throat. He claps Thomas on the shoulder and rubs in a way he hopes is soothing, glaring at Minho for asking in the first place.

"You don't have to talk about it, Tommy."

"I was born into it, you know? My dad did it, his dad did it. My relatives were probably flanking George Washington for fuck's sake. And…" he swallows hard, his shoulders shaking under Newt's hand, "and so was Chuck. Our dads served together, it was just what we were supposed to do and…and…"

"Hey, Tommy," Newt crouches down, ignoring the strange, immediate pain in his ankle and resting both hands on Thomas's shoulders to make the most direct eye-contact possible. "Look at me, alright?"

"And he wouldn't shut up," Thomas shakes his head, "he just kept talking and talking and talking."

"That's what you're doing now, mate, so shut up and look at me," the words are sharp but his voice is soft and Thomas exhales a shuddering breath and makes eye contact. His pupils are wide, glassy circles of black, ringed by barely there amber, like he's watching something awful play out right in front of him. "The asshole is gone. You scared him off. You changed his mind."

"Really?"

"Probably not," Newt sighs, "but if it will get you to calm down, then yes. You changed his mind."

"That's encouraging."

"Sarcasm is encouraging."

Thomas picks up his beer and drains it before exhaling slowly again and making eye contact yet again, his pupils shrinking slightly, his expression returning to something within the bounds of normal. Somewhere halfway between tired and strung out. "Prepare to be encouraged."

"There we go," Newt drums his fingers on the back of Thomas's shoulders, standing up and trying not to let the relief in his ankle show on his face. "Back to normal, then. Irritating the piss out of me."

"Hey, that's my job," Minho clears his throat like he knows they've forgotten he's there. To his credit, he's less forceful than normal, less eager to jut himself into the center of attention. He pats Newt on the back and looks towards the door. "If you think you can handle Mr. Lunatic here, I've got an early shift tomorrow."

"We'll be fine," Newt nods, "Lock the door on your way out. That'll slow him down, at least."

"I'll charge through the window," Thomas laughs, hollow and fake, like the sound has been echoing around his chest for hours before making it out into the open. "Full Incredible Hulk style. You won't like me when I'm angry."

There's such honesty in the last sentence, such raw, unbridled honesty that Newt bites his lip, patting Thomas on the shoulder again and looking to Minho. The other man should leave. Newt wants help. There's no one in the world that could help him with helping, no one that could tell him what to say.

"See you tomorrow, Minho."

"Alright," Minho claps Newt on the shoulder on his way to the door. The lock clicks into place behind him and Newt sighs, running his hand through his hair. He wishes he had one of Minho's beers.

"I'll help you clean up. I meant that."

"Don't worry about it right now," Newt snaps, and he hates himself for snapping, hates how harsh he sounds and how staunchly it conflicts with how he feels. He wants to hug Thomas, to hold him close and take his pain, to heft some of this weight from his shoulders. "Not the first buggin' time there's been blood on the floor."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry."

"This is literally the least attractive—goddammit, you probably don't want to see me again tomorrow—making an ass of myself—this is so fucking stupid, I should have realized where I was picking a fight and—"

"Do you want a ride home?" Newt cuts him off, looking at the bright red drips of blood on the floor, the long night disinfecting ahead of him.

"Yeah," Thomas nods, "that'd actually be great. I doubt they'll let me on the bus like this," he gestures at his bloody shirt and Newt can't help but laugh.

"You might scare a few people away from public transportation."

It feels more natural than it should, leading Thomas to his car, warning him about getting blood on the seats. Thomas lives on the opposite side of town, close to the university, where his sister is getting her masters in abnormal psychology.

"It works for her, though, she's been spouting facts about weird brains since we were kids. We're barely a year apart, I don't remember when she wasn't smarter than me," Thomas explains like he's done it a million times before. "That's why it made more sense to move here. My parents—I didn't want to move home and have someone asking if I was ok every two minutes. Teresa keeps it to every week or so, and that's livable."

"So I shouldn't ask if you're ok, I take it?"

"I'll be fine," Thomas shakes his head, glaring through the windshield. "How's my typical answer?"

"Pretty intimidating."

"Just what I was going for." He sighs, biting his lip, and Newt finds himself looking at that instead of the road. Maybe Thomas isn't a wrecking ball, maybe he just distracts everyone around him and chaos follows. "Thanks for this. Seriously. And I'm sorry you guys felt like you had to come out, and fuck—I should apologize to Minho too—this is my street. My sister's street, at least."

Newt turns and pulls up in front of a half dark duplex with a lawn that's probably green when it's not covered with a smattering of refrozen snow. He realizes Thomas isn't wearing a jacket, his arms bare beneath stained and stretched sleeves of his shirt.

"Thanks," Thomas pauses with his hand on the door, frowning slightly, his pursed lips white from the force of pressing together. Newt shrugs out of his own jacket, unthinking, holding it across the console towards Thomas, the brown leather obnoxiously warm against his fingers. It feels awkward. Thomas frowns.

"I'm assuming you left yours at the bar, I have another at home but—"

"No, you don't have to—"

"It's a bloody ancient jacket, you can give it back tomorrow when you come pick me up."

"You still want to see me tomorrow?" He snorts, his cheeks coloring, "hoping I'll stage a cage fight?"

"Well, I know who to bet on now. You can pay me for your tattoo."

"That is tempting, I'm poor as shit, I'll figure out how to make the money by smashing some guy's face against the cage." Thomas frowns, looking at the jacket a bit reverently, his thumb dragging across the well-worn leather. Newt wishes he were still wearing it, that he could feel the slow, even drag of Thomas's touch.

It occurs to him all at once that he's spent hours putting his hands all over Thomas, tantalizing, sort of brutal hours, but Thomas hasn't touched him except for that first hug. Newt wishes he could remember the hug better, he'd been so shocked and worried that he didn't really take it in at the time. A wave of irrational jealousy for his jacket, draped across Thomas's shoulders all day washes over him. "Not that I'm not good for it. I'll pay, I have…some money. Just not…not-riding-the-bus-anymore kind of money."

"If you're so poor, why are you getting a massive tattoo?"

Thomas stiffens, his grip suddenly tight around the sleeve of Newt's jacket, "because my piece of paper was falling apart."

"Is it—does it help though? Having the tattoo?" Newt wants to ask about Chuck, about the other names, but he feels like it would be a cheap attempt at sympathy, prying more than helpful. People are supposed to ask about the names, but no one really wants to hear, they just want to feel better about themselves for noticing, for caring about someone else for a moment.

"You aren't going to ask about it?"

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Thomas frowns, folding the jacket carefully over his arm, "not—not tonight."

Newt raises his eyebrows and nods slowly, trying not to be shocked. Again, it's like Thomas is opening a rarely used door, like he's not the funny guy or the flirt or the sad guy, he's the needy guy. The one that wants someone to talk to. The one that wants someone to turn a piece of paper into a part of him.

"Let me know."

"I think I will," Thomas looks at him then, all big brown eyes and earnest expression, like he's been thinking about the next moment for an incomprehensibly long time. He leans across the console and kisses Newt on the cheek. A little low, a little close to the corner of his mouth, like he was deciding where to aim and settled for a compromise somewhere in the middle.

And Newt thinks of a hug he let slip by, of a million, innocent sketchy touches across Thomas's back over agonizing hours. He grabs Thomas's chin and holds him there, and he knows it's stupid and too soon when their lips brush across each other, not solid enough to be a kiss. It's another almost, a closer almost, a warmer almost, their breath mingling warm and charged in the space between them. Thomas smells like someone else's blood and cigarette smoke, fading anxiety and something warm that makes Newt want to lean in anyway.

"See you tomorrow," he pulls away, gripping the steering wheel with both hands, like if he's not touching something he'll grab Thomas all at once. "Don't leave that jacket in a bloody bar, Tommy."

"I'll do my best," he's smiling in his reflection in the dark windshield, that honest, flirty smile that makes Newt think about goofy texts. "See you tomorrow, Newt."

Newt waits at the curb until Thomas is safely inside, drumming his hands on the steering wheel and shaking his head. He's gone, isn't he? He doesn't stand a bloody chance. From here it's all a ticking clock to heartbreak or happily ever after.


End file.
